Path: usenet.ee.pdx.edu!cs.uoregon.edu!reuter.cse.ogi.edu!hp-cv!sdd.hp.com!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!sunic!uunet!not-for-mail From: guido@rbg.informatik.th-darmstadt.de (guido roessling) Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives Subject: STORY: Qelrik (part 18) Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc Date: 5 Mar 1994 12:51:13 -0500 Organization: UUNET Technologies Inc, Falls Church, VA, USA Lines: 234 Sender: smm@uunet.uu.net Approved: smm@uunet.uu.net Message-ID: <2lagqhINNadf@rodan.UU.NET> ***************************************************************************** This series is the result of the cooperation of two American, two Canadian and one German student which started in the alt.pub.cloven-shield. We hope that you enjoy the stories! Questions, comments etc. are welcome -- just send a mail to guido@rbg.informatik.th-darmstadt.de , and you'll get a reply as soon as possible. Credits for the posts go to Barbara C. French, Jennifer Immel, Brent Hughes, John E. Mason, and myself (Guido Roessling). ***************************************************************************** ==================================================================== Fox introduces herself ==================================================================== Myrlight woke, her neck stiff, as pale grey sunlight washed through the edge of the shutter. In the other chair sat the young healer, his hat over his eyes, deep in slumber. She could tell by the quality of the light that it was just past dawn, and she rubbed her neck as the events of the night before came back to her in a rush. The girl, Fox. The deep wound in her side. Myrlight helping the healer as best she could while he cleaned out the wound, healed the ripped flesh, pulled out pieces of her mail shirt. Getting the bitter antidote to tagric down Fox's throat, as she fought them in pain-filled confusion. The bruise Fox had inadvertently left on Myrlight's cheek in the struggle. This was the reason Myrlight was so confused to find Fox gone. -- Myrlight went back out into the inn, where a young girl swept the floor. Sitting alone at a table, her torn mail shirt spread next to a steaming cup, a pale-faced Fox was composedly knitting new plain steel rings together to repair the damage done by her assailant's knife. She smiled at the appearance of the kender, but Myrlight hung back for a moment. Her grandpap's warning when she was a little girl came back to her: "Never trust a man whose smile doesn't reach beyond his mouth." She supposed it was just as true for a woman as for a man. "I never got a chance to thank you," Fox said, her voice still a little weak, "and I confess I don't remember your name." "Myrlight," she answered, but did not come forward. Fox offered her the opposite seat, which she took after a few moment's hesitation. Fox shook out her hands, and Myrlight noticed that her left hand was again covered with a crested glove, but not the right. Strange. "It's vain, I know," Fox said quietly, as if she had read her thoughts or eyes. "I have something of a deformity on that hand, which I don't like to . . . advertise. The glove is less conspicuous. Both hands gloved makes it hard to knit the mail properly." She shook her head at the rings. "Of course, this is going to look like hell, and butted mail isn't as strong as riveted, but there's no one here who can fix it properly." She wore a clean scarlet shirt, not unlike the one she had been wearing the night before. A bag sat on the floor next to her feet, which dangled a good handspan off the floor. Myrlight had not remembered Fox had carried a bag, but said nothing. "So . . . what were you doing in town?" Myrlight asked, sounding lame in her own ears. Fox's face darkened, and for a time she said nothing. The mail chimed lightly in her hands as she slipped another ring onto the growing patch. "I am on a . . . hunt, of sorts." "A hunt? Of what?" "Not a what. A who." Silence. Apparently, Fox was making up her mind whether or not to talk, but at last, she said to Myrlight, "I am a member of a religious order from one of the empires in the East. We are not an order of priests and monks, sitting safe behind their walls and in their chapels -- we actually go out into the world and act upon our beliefs, not wait for our beliefs to be acted upon us." Contempt tinged her voice. "I was chosen for this hunt." "Who are you hunting?" Myrlight asked softly. "A vampire."Fox did not say more, but continued to knit her mail. "Isn't that . . . kind of dangerous?" 'Boy, what a stupid thing to say,' Myrlight chastised herself. 'Of course hunting vampires is dangerous.' Unexpectedly, Fox laughed. It was not a particularly pleasant sound. "Of course it is, my friend," she said. "I was chosen because I have affinity for magical things, and can hold my own. Of course," she added with a slight acidity in her words, "it failed me last night." "What DID happen?" Fox scowled. "The barkeep insisted on telling the city guard about this. It's a personal matter and I wished to keep it so, but I suppose I must go along with these good city folk. I expect one of them will arrive this morning to question me. You may hear that. I don't waste words, and don't tell stories repeatedly." "I feel for you," Myrlight said quietly. "Stories are meant to be shared. Words are for celebrating, not to be rationed." "For you, perhaps. It is not my way." Another uncomfortable silence followed. At last, Fox set down her mail and drew a small object from her pocket. It was a plain band of the same red steel as her mail. "I wish to thank you properly for you actions on my behalf yesterday. Pray, accept this small gift." Myrlight took the proffered ring dubiously, and glanced at it. "Is it . . . special?" The metal tingled under her fingers, but not unpleasantly. "If you mean 'is it magical', yes. It's a protection ring. A small thing in itself, but you may find it useful." "Protection . . . from what?" "It keeps away vampires. No vampire may approach you when you wear this ring." Myrlight still did not put on the ring, but turned it over, searching for some kind of inscription. The metal was smooth and unmarked. "Why do you not keep such a powerful charm?" Myrlight asked quietly. "Because, my friend, I hunt vampires. I seek them. I don't want to keep them away." She picked up her small pliers again. "You may take it to any temple or guild of your choice and have them wave their hands and chant their words at it, if you are troubled by taking the word of a grateful stranger that it's for your good. Accept it or not, as you will. I'll not be offended." There was no anger, malice or sarcasm in Fox's voice. This time, the tentative smile she offered the kender was echoed slightly in her eyes. -- Myrlight pushed aside the empty bowl which had once held breakfast, next to the red-gold ring which still sat on the table. After a good bite, she felt much more like herself. "So tell me," she said, looking Fox in the eye. "What ARE you?" Fox looked up in surprise from her repair work. "What?" "Well, you aren't an elf. You don't look like a dwarf. And you're certainly not a kender." She leaned her elbows on the table. "So what are you?" A pale eyebrow lifted in amusement. "My father's father was a Lhynnish giant -- small tribe, cousin to the storm-giants. My mother is a sidhe, from the north." "That's why . . . all the muscles. You must have trouble buying shirts." "I have them made." Fox's mouth twitched in wry amusement. "Your manners are good," Myrlight said carelessly, toying with her spoon. "You act like you're noble --" "I am titled," Fox said, her accented voice a little too casual. "Yeah, but there's one thing, then, I don't understand. Where'd all those scars on your back come from?" Fox stopped her repair job, and glared at the kender. "You ask an awful lot of questions." "How else do I find out anything? Clear you're not going to tell me on your own." She took a sip of her juice and looked at Fox expectantly. "It's not something I talk about," Fox replied, in a tone which was clearly intended to end the conversation. "Then it's high time you should," Myrlight said reasonably. To the end of her days, Fox could never explain why she spoke of her past life to Myrlight. She was not one who talked much about her life _before_, but before she could stop herself, she found herself talking -- her voice quiet and measured, careful not to let others overhear. "I've only been in my lord knight's service for the past five years," she said. "Before that, I was a ward of a mercenary guild, until I ran away and took to my own. I lived on the streets for more years than I care to remember. Those scars are the result of my one brush with the law, when I got fifteen lashes for stealing a basket of bread." 'No wonder she's so sour,' Myrlight couldn't help think. "So, how'd you get from the streets to being in a knight's service?" "I asked him." Myrlight waited, but Fox didn't offer more. "Well?" she finally prompted. Fox looked up. "Well, what?" "That's not all there is to getting into a knight's service. I know that much. There's more to it than asking. Especially if you were a street kid." "Enough. I don't want to talk about that now." Fox pressed her hand to her side, and grimaced. "How are you feeling?" "Better, thank you. The healer was skilled -- surprise for such a town as this -- and I mend quickly. Still hurts, though." Fox picked up her pliers again. "If you're so fond of talking, stop asking me questions and tell me something about you. I'm tired of talking, and it's clear to me you're not." She sighed. "Like every other kender I've ever met." ************************************************************************** Next Time: Myrlight accepts a gift... ************************************************************************** -- Guido Roessling guido@rbg.informatik.th-darmstadt.de -------------------------------------- Do not follow me, I might not lead. Do not lead me, I might not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.